Stereotype (8 page)

“So, do you like Shane?” Fiona whispers to me the following morning. Well, mid-afternoon. Time to clean up. The fun is only just beginning . . .

I have one of those pounding headaches where you can actually
hear
the veins throbbing. I’m not in the mood to discuss Shane. “No,” I say curtly.

“OK,”
Fiona says huffily.

Great. Just great. Exactly what I need, one of my friends being pissed off with me. Well, I knew I couldn’t hide my bitchiness forever. It had to emerge someday, and then they’d see me for what I really am and hate me.

Last night Shane and I were discussing the band. “I want us to be really original, you know?” he said earnestly.

“It’s hard to be original,” I said, thinking,
And I don’t think you’re going to achieve that goal. For all your talk you’re still just a seventeen-year-old who thinks he can change the world with his music.

And the truth is that although a lot of musicians think they can change the world with music, no one has ever succeeded. Sarah disagrees with me, citing John Lennon as an example. Great musician, sure, but there are still wars going on. There are famines, there are diseases that we can’t cure. And I’m not one of those deeply-concerned political-activist types, but even I know that there are still so many problems in the world and music isn’t the answer. Or films, or books, or whatever art form you choose.

Yeah, I’m a cynic. A poetic cynic, how about that?

Of course, we ended up talking about whether art could change the world or not. In response to my it’s-hard-to-be-original statement he said, “Yeah, it’s hard, but not impossible. You just have to be honest, and then anything’s possible” which naturally led to a heated debate.

“You don’t really believe that,” he said, smiling. “You just want to be different and argue with me.”

“No, I just think that you’re a little naïve, that’s all,” I replied.

“And I think you’re a little too caught up in the idea of thinking that you’re better than everyone else to accept the fact that you secretly agree with me.”

I had no answer to that. Mostly because he was a little bit – not completely, mind you – right. And even though it was all in good fun, and we kept being friendly for the rest of the night, I was mildly annoyed with him.

Caroline and Hugh were coming back from the kitchen with drinks, and rather than involve them in the discussion, I finished it with a simple, very mature gesture.

I stuck my tongue out at him.

It elicited a grin. I hated him for being patronising, and loved him for the way he smiled.

“I think we’re finished,” Sarah declares.

I don’t think she’s ever going to have a party again. She was cleaning up the bathroom. Let’s just say that although it was great that anyone who was sick managed to get in there in time, some people have trouble with their aim.

“I’m going to go home and
sleep,”
Fiona says, yawning. She hugs us both and leaves. She doesn’t seem annoyed with me anymore, which is a relief. We’re both just in bad moods today, her because she hasn’t slept, me because of that excruciating headache.

“You going, too?” Sarah asks.

“Yeah, I’d better,” I say. I don’t have to go. I could stay, chat, whatever. But I want to leave. The painkillers at home are calling out to me.

I want to talk to her about Shane, but I’m not sure how to bring it up. And I’m pretty sure she’s still working on fooling herself into thinking she doesn’t have a chance.

“See ya.” She smiles.

I arrive home to jokes about wild parties, hangovers and strippers. My parents either still truly believe that at sixteen, I am innocent and my friends are equally demure, or they’re living in Denial-Land. I debate telling them about the friend of Shane’s who danced around in his underwear towards the latter half of the night, but decide they’re better off not knowing.

Besides, it’s not like I go out all the time. And unlike some people I can think of, I’m always able to walk in a straight line at the end of the night.

So was Shane, last night, but that’s beside the point. It doesn’t make him a good person.

I don’t know why I’m even thinking about him. I mean, he is the epitome of everything that I don’t like about my generation. Pseudo-intellectual, pretentious, idealistic, “unique”.

And I do
not
think that I’m better than everyone else. I’m just . . . not like them, that’s all.

And maybe he isn’t, either. Maybe none of us are, maybe we all really
are
individuals, but then I think about Rebecca The Annoying Optimist, the Bleach Brigade, the Pretty People, the It’s-Cool-To-Be-Depressed Crowd, and it’s just too hard to believe that any of them have anything truly original to say.

The thing I hate about
The Catcher In The Rye
and the book that’s been referred to as its twenty-first century equivalent,
The Perks Of Being A Wallflower
, is that you
understand
why the narrators are so messed up. You know what I mean. They have
reasons.
There’s a traumatic past, involving the death of a loved one and abuse as a child, and they’ve been to psychiatrists.

I wonder if it’s just that Americans have this talk-it-all-out attitude, and that’s why they love sending kids off to therapists. They’re big into finding quick cures for problems. If therapy doesn’t work it’s off to the GP for your Prozac prescription. In Ireland it’s a different view – work
through
your problems, there are always people worse off than you, life is hard, everyone goes through tough times.

Maybe it’s just me who thinks that. Maybe it’s just me saying these things because I would love the thought of being
declared
a troubled child. Diagnosed. And then fixed.

“Made tidy,” like in that U A Fanthorpe poem,
Patients
. I like it because I think maybe she knows what I mean, she understands this feeling that no one else seems to have. Or maybe she doesn’t and I’m only seeing what I want to.

Of course, if they told me I was crazy then I’d hate it. I’m the ultimate tantrum-throwing toddler, wanting everything that I don’t have.

On Monday we all head off to Mass together. The whole family. St Patrick’s Day is one of the three occasions, along with Christmas and Easter, when we all have to go. The rest of the time we don’t. I mean, my parents do, every single Sunday, but then Jess and I started refusing to go, and Greg decided to be oh-so-original and join in. Eventually they gave up on the three of us – although they still have some hope for converting Greg back to Catholicism. Maybe it’s not too late for him, they think.

I think it’s their way of being tolerant while secretly hoping that it’s just a phase (
everything’s
‘just a phase’) and we’ll grow out of it.

Jess is extremely anti-religious, thinks all priests are child-molesters, thinks all religions are cults, et cetera. I’m not. I just can’t believe in any of it. I would support almost everything the Catholic church has to say if it wasn’t for the deity element of it.

I used to pray every night, the same way that someone with OCD has to wash their hands seventeen times or flip a light switch on and off.
Dear God please don’t let anything bad happen to my family and friends and please don’t let any of them go blind or die, amen.

I was such a worrier as a child. I was haunted by nightmares of my parents dying. Every time they were out late I panicked. I stopped praying and for a while I just blocked everything out. No more worrying about anything serious, just reassure yourself that’s everything
will
be OK.

It’s like I can only concentrate on either the serious or the trivial. And the serious stuff feels worse, but the trivial things make me do stupid things like cut myself or scream at someone. I don’t get it. I really don’t.

Another Tuesday has arrived too quickly. Once more I have forgotten my tracksuit for Irish dancing. You’d almost think that I was doing this deliberately. Caroline seems to be playing the part of an involved, enthusiastic student and taking part in the dancing this week, so I’m on my own. Well, not technically on my own, but it feels that way. There are a couple of Earnest Students and a few of the Bleach Brigade in the same boat as I am, but for all intents and purposes, I’m alone.

Some people can’t stand not being surrounded by people to talk to. I’m not like that. I sit quietly at the back of the supervision room and stare at my homework journal. The cover is too crowded to even attempt to fit in another squiggle.

Sometimes I wish Transition Year would just finish. Everyone’s always saying about how much they’re dreading Fifth Year and how hard it’s going to be after this, but I’m so sick of doing nothing. I just want to get
out
of here.

The work is not going to be a problem. Well, it
is.
I mean, it’s hard. But it’s the spaces in between the work that’s the problem, the hanging-out-with-people-in-your-class part.

They don’t really care if I’m there or not. Karen might, yeah, but she’s generally too busy trying so hard to be popular, or whatever it is she’s trying to do, to notice. I’m not a part of their little group. I hover on the outskirts, slipping away to talk to Sarah half the time. For them, school is a time to be with their friends. For me, it’s . . . just school. Just a place that I have to be for another couple of years, and then I’ll leave and never look back.

It makes me feel kind of sad in a way, though. I remember in First Year we were told that we’d look back fondly on this time in our lives, and that we’d make lifelong friends in school. And yes, it was sentimental bullshit that had half the year rolling their eyes, but I always get inspired by things like that. I’m pathetic, I know. It just makes me feel like I’m missing out on the whole teenage experience. Everyone else is busy making lifelong friends and going out and having fun and enjoying their youth – and I’m sitting at home in front of the TV, or the computer, or listening to CDs.

Don’t get me wrong – I
love
doing all of that. But sometimes I wonder whether I’ll look back on my teenage years and regret not . . . participating.

Hi, I’m Abigail the Wallflower, welcome to my life.

Break time is actually OK. I talk to Hannah for most of it. We used to be such good friends. I guess she feels sorry for me or something. I used to completely idolise her. She always seemed so individualistic.

“Seemed” being the key word, of course. I was young and naïve and didn’t realise that it was, for the most part, an act.

In fairness to her, though, she’s an interesting and thoughtful person. If it wasn’t for the fact that she’s so close to the others, we might still be friends.

And, you know, if I wasn’t such a total freak. But I digress.

During Religion class we discuss the sanctity of life and why abortions are evil.

“Don’t you think women should have the option of having an abortion?” I have to ask.

Narrowed eyes. “I think women should take responsibility for their actions. When you become sexually active” (cue a snort of laughter from the back of the class) “you have to realise that you have to accept the consequences.”

I refuse to let it go. “So you think that one mistake should determine the rest of someone’s life? Shouldn’t women be able to choose whether
they
want to bring a child into the world or not?”

“If they’re pregnant, then they’ve already made that decision,” she responds, sounding like she wants this debate to end and go back to reading out what’s on the handouts.

“So you think that sex serves no other purpose apart from procreation?” I demand.

More laughs. A couple of smirks from semi-relevant people like Hannah. The teacher decides to change the subject. I hate her.

The thing is that I’m only pro-choice because I’d prefer to be liberal than super-conservative, sanctimoniously preaching about how life is a gift from God. If I got pregnant accidentally – although the chances of that happening are slim to none, since I hear that sex is necessary for that to happen – I wouldn’t even consider abortion. Or adoption. I’d want to have the baby. I just like the idea of people being able to choose what they want to do.

Then, of course, people will complain about others having the right to do what they want, because they disagree with it, and there’s a fine line between the right to choose and completely anarchy. Which is why I could never go into politics. It just seems too complicated and confusing and frustrating, and I’d just want to hand out cups of tea and tell people to calm down and stop getting so worked up over being
right.

But isn’t that what
I
want? To be right all the time? To think that I’m the one who knows best?